Love the Way I Lie

When you enter the cesspool otherwise known as internet dating, it can jade you. Even the most self-confident, awesome of princesses suddenly becomes insecure about things like her height, weight, income, procreation preferences, and yes . . . her age.

I’m 37 years old, and believe me – I don’t think there’s a darned thing wrong with that. Because I’m 37 and not, say, 25, I am financially secure, semi-educated, and somewhat interesting. Since I also possess the sense of humor and maturity level of your average 12 year old boy, one might describe me as “young at heart”.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a middle-aged person. I see a princess – even when my tiara is in the shop. Do I color my hair to cover up the errant grays? Duh! But for the record, I’ve been dying my hair for 20 years – not because I need to but because I can. And yes, I moisturize and wear an SPF 45 sunscreen year-round, but that’s just fear of cancer talking. So whether I’m 37 or 57 or 17, I feel like a princess and I think I look damn fine, no matter how young I may or may not be.

Do I lie about my age? You bet I do – but only to online suitors and only to get past the age filters they’ve cleverly enabled to skew their demographic younger. It’s a little shocking that a follicle-challenged, overweight, underemployed 40 year old man who’s never been married would be holding out for a 25-32 year old partner, but as I say, dare to dream, boys. Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones holding out for younger babes. The attractive and employed ones are, too.

I don’t think fibbing about one’s age in an online profile is any different than lying about your weight on your drivers’ license (Guilty as charged. I actually weigh a tad more than 125 but appreciate that the fine folks at the DMV never question me). And for the record, guys lie all the time. Don’t even get me started on the male measurement system. Every man who’s ever claimed to be 6 feet tall is at least three inches shorter, a fact that I now account for in my choice of first date footwear.

I recently discussed my web of lies with my family, who were all appalled by my dishonesty. Smug married people with their mutual respect and honesty don’t remember what it’s like to be swimming in the singles shark tank. It’s survival of the fittest out there, and a web of lies can often turn into a safety net. One well-intentioned family member wanted to know, “Aren’t you setting yourself up for a day of reckoning?”

While I appreciate the sentiment, it’s not like I’m standing in a church and lying right in Jesus’ face. Rather, I’ve created an online profile using creative accounting. In some cultures, I’d be named president of the company and rewarded with stock options for this. But the question stuck in my craw and got me thinking . . . am I setting myself up for failure?

I know what the future lawyer thinks, but the rest of the jury is still out on this one. The clever suitors are quick to figure out that there is no way I’m as young as I pretend to be online. My love of Barry Manilow, inability to use an iphone, and general knowledge of 1970’s trivia gives me away. And I give myself away on the first date if the guy passes Princess D's 9 Commandments and appears to be semi-literate. Since I have no intention of dating a moron, why bother coming clean with the stupid ones?

The topic of age is top of mind these days since I’m facing a 20 year high school reunion this summer. My first response upon receiving the invitation was, “Who are these people and why do they think we’re the same age?!?!” My second response was, “I am WAY hotter than anyone would have guessed I’d be 20 years ago. Whose face can I rub that in?” And my third response was, “In a graduating class of 81, how many good-looking single guys will be at this event?” Note that the third question was asked in a facetious tone, since I went to Catholic school. I expect there to be one single guy there and he’ll probably be a priest.

Will I attend the reunion? I’m not sure. The miracles of technology like Facebook have allowed me to keep tabs on people I never intended to speak to again, rendering things like in-person reunions unnecessary. Unless I wind up married to Joe Mauer before August, I might sit this one out. Will I keep lying about my age? Well . . . Eminem said it best; “I love the way you lie.”

© 2011 Princess D

Snakes, Liars . . . And Frog #10

Maybe it was insane optimism. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was low self-esteem. Regardless, I recently found myself on another internet-procured date, courtesy of www.plentyoffrogs.com.

When your primary dating vehicle is a free website that uses diligent screening questions such as, “Do you own a car,” you quickly learn to keep your expectations low. Or, if you’re me, you drink a $30 Coors Light in the company of an ass-slapping frog before you wake up and smell the distinct odor of swamp.

Mind you, the only reason I even re-entered the toxic waste heap of internet dating can be blamed on a couple of factors. First, I suffer from delusional arrogance and second, I possess a killer competitive instinct – a personality characteristic I prefer to keep out of the limelight. And, okay . . . you caught me. I’m a little hard up for blog fodder and bored, too.

You may be wondering what in the heck my competitive streak has to do with dating, which is a fair question. Allow me to explain. I’m a bit of a princess, as you know. I recently (drunkenly) declared myself a “real catch”, citing my universally and empirically attractive big boobs, small waist, and big paycheck as evidence to substantiate my claim. As both a real catch and a princess, I cannot fathom the notion that there are straight men on earth who wouldn’t want to date me. Just ask poor, poor Frog #6 about that. Rather than accept that he just might not be that into me, I made him gay. In writing.

But I digress. The real issue is that I have this friend. He might be a Faux Frog, but in all actuality, he’s just a slightly stupider, much vainer, way more attractive male version of me. Honestly, folks, he looks like a Calvin Klein underwear model, which is the only reason he can get away with being a serial womanizer. He’s neither frog nor prince, so we’ll call him Snake. Snake and I spend a lot of time together, but since he is absolutely not serious boyfriend material, it’s just a lot of laughs. We go to the movies, we drink cheap beer, we burp and fart . . . it’s kind of like we’re frat brothers, except that one of us thinks she’s a princess.

I’m fascinated by Snake’s antics. He sees a different girl every night of the week – and some nights, he has them scheduled in shifts. Because he is all about variety, Snake doesn’t encourage encore performances. One or two dates are enough. As a result, he needs a bottomless source of available women, preferably with loose morals. It was Snake, in fact, who introduced me to www.plentyoffrogs.com, since it is his primary sourcing tool, and it was Snake who encouraged me to stretch the truth on things like my age, height, and weight.

On an average day, Snake meets 15+ “ladies” who meet his strict qualifications online. I, on the other hand, found myself having much worse luck. While I was generating online interest, less than 1% of my internet suitors complied with Princess D's Nine Dating Commandments. And I’m not going to lie to you. This really bugged me. How dare Snake be able to date at will while a real catch like me generated enthusiasm only from bald, fat, unemployed guys who live with their parents?
Imagine my surprise, then, when I stumbled onto a relatively normal frog online. His photos indicated hair, teeth, and a suitable inseam-to-waist ratio. He asked me out for a drink and I figured, “Why not?” I mean, it’s not like the Snake was free to hang out, right?

We make plans to meet for a drink after work on a Friday night. I take extra care with my appearance so as to play up my aforementioned assets. We arrive at the bar at just about the same time, and I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that he both looks and smells good. We get a table and order a drink . . . .and that’s when things went south.

I thought I was out on a date with a 39 year old finance guy. The waitress discovered otherwise when she decided to card the awkward pair of middle-aged losers out on a first date. I handed her my drivers license in exchange for an Amstel Light order, and although she scrutinized it like there was going to be an exam later, she thankfully refrained from any commentary. My date wasn’t quite so lucky. As she studied his identification, the waitress commented on my date’s upcoming birthday . . . which, as she astutely pointed out by reading his drivers license, was the big 4-3.

Cue the humiliation and shame! Yes, folks, Frog #10 lied about his age and got called out by a chain-restaurant waitress. His embarrassment was obvious and since I didn’t know what else to do, I tried to cheer him up by admitting that I, too, lied about my age in my internet dating profile. Note to self: two wrongs don’t make a right. While he appreciated not being the only liar at the table, he was less than impressed with my creative math, and although we salvaged the rest of the evening, I never heard from Frog #10 again.

It figures. The ass-slappers won’t stop calling. The good-looking, employed ones get a little embarrassed and disappear. By the way, Frog #10 . . . I should get points not only for honesty but for compassion. I didn’t have to tell you the truth. I could have let you marinate in your lying stew. Since he failed to notice what an excellent catch I am, one thing is abundantly clear. He’s obviously gay. What other explanation could there be?

© 2011 Princess D

You Get What You Pay For . . .

New Year’s Eve was a big day for this princess. On the domestic front, it marked the day that all of 2010’s home improvement projects were completed, including the pièce de résistance, the dishwasher. After a mere 13 trips between the house and my local hardware store, the dishwasher was installed and my life was changed forever. My kitchen has never been cleaner and this princess is enjoying every cent of the $225 investment in her domicile. (Thank you, Randy, for installing it and not letting you-know-who burn my house down. You are my hero.) And did I mention the eye-candy I lured into my house to install said appliance? Like I said – it was a life-changing day.

Project Dishwasher started early in the morning on New Year’s Eve day. At that point, I’d planned to ring in the new year quietly, at home, with a glass of wine and a nice Lean Cuisine. (Side note: I really like the butternut squash ravioli). I was in no mood to whoop it up, or frankly, even wash myself. The very idea of dressing myself and going out on the town was simply more than I could handle. Besides, if I went out, how would I enjoy running the dishwasher just because I can?

Unfortunately, the unskilled half of the eye-candy had other ideas and wanted to hit the town. Knowing him as I do, I firmly explained that I had no intention of showering, putting on cute clothes, and exposing myself to arctic weather conditions if he was going to ignore me and pick up random girls all night long. Who said my human resources experience isn’t helpful in real life? HR rule #1: past performance is the best indicator of future behavior. Which is precisely why I felt compelled to extract (extort?) a promise that I wouldn’t spend New Year’s Eve at the VFW, drinking flat beer in a plastic cup while my eye-candy/so-called friend shared the love with any and every female within a 50 mile radius.

Fast forward a few hours, and you’ll find me dressed to the nines and looking pretty hot, even if I do say so myself, sitting alone at the bar at the VFW drinking flat beer out of a plastic glass. Watch out, Dionne Warwick and psychic friends - I clearly have the power to predict the future. As I sat alone at the bar, fuming and looking adorable, I did a little mental inventory and realized that sitting alone at the bar while my “companion” hit on everything that moved was becoming par for the course. Did I want to spend what’s left of my 30’s sitting in the world’s shittiest bars and playing designated driver to a 40 year old man-child? Or do I want some thing more?

As a very friendly American hero and veteran of a foreign war smiled at me with his 3 teeth and asked me to dance, I made my first New Year’s resolution, which was pretty simple. Get out there and date, darn it. My theory was simple – it would be good for my self-esteem to let someone buy me a sandwich.

Unlike good theories, like relativity, this one didn’t hold much water. But ever the optimist, I decided to get myself a date come hell or high water. While internet dating has been a complete and total bust for me thus far, I couldn’t help but notice that my male friends were having a lot of luck online, and their enthusiasm rubbed off on me. I kept my expectations low, my Visa card in my wallet, and signed up for one of those free sites. Let’s call it . . . www.plentyoffrogs.com, in keeping with our amphibious theme. Did I lie about my height, age, weight, and income? You bet I did. And it paid off as suddenly, lots of male humans wanted to get to know me.

What I didn’t know at the time is that www.plentyoffrogs.com would be more aptly titled, www.here’showyouobtainasexuallytrasmitteddisease.com Within moments of creating my profile, I received several photos I never requested a la Brett Favre. Newsflash, boys: just because you have a camera doesn’t mean you need to use it. Really. I’m going to assume all your anatomy is intact. I don’t need photographic evidence.

Beyond the photos, I also received lots of invitations to go over to strange men’s homes. Does this tactic work? Because I’ve been watching Dateline. How do I know you won’t chop me up into bits and sell my organs on e-bay? And what happened to the romance? Could I get a sandwich first?

Needless to say, what I discovered is that while there may be plenty of frogs, these aren’t the frogs I’m looking for. What I should have done is disabled my account and focused on cleaning my house, but the entertainment factor was just too compelling and I decided to push my social experiment to the next level.

I exchanged notes with a couple of guys who seemed literate, passed 2^nd grade spelling, and didn’t suggest getting to know one another in the biblical sense as their opening lines. (Side note: you really do get what you pay for. These free sites are loser magnets. I should have been tipped off by the “Do you have a car?” question in the intake profile.) And that, friends, is how I met Frog #9.

My Spidey senses had a feeling about Frog #9 long before the date even started, which is why I canceled our original date in favor of laying on the couch and eating microwave popcorn. Un-thwarted, Frog #9 merely suggested a do-over on Sunday.

Per his request, we met at a local sports bar inconveniently located in the part of the suburbs I never go to. Football was on – loudly – and it was happy hour. I was able to recognize him based on his photos and he was decent looking. He recognized me right away and we sat down and had a beer. Well, if I’m honest, I had one. He had five. This fact becomes important when you realize that we split the bill at the end of the date and understand that I drank a $30 Coors Light.

We made the requisite small talk, we had a snack, and I realized that I might actually hate him. His idea of small talk included a discussion of every woman he’d dated in the past 24 months, complete with a description of how super-model hot they all were (really?) and how bat-shit crazy they all were. All I’m going to say is that the common denominator here is you, Frog #9. He possessed a giant ego, a smug arrogance, and frankly, shitty conversational skills, so I was thrilled when it was time to wrap it up.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t merely pay the tab and leave, because we were in a suburban shopping mall. Novice tactical error on my part that I won’t make again, believe you me. After the world’s most expensive diet beer, I had to walk with this guy through the length of the mall in order to return to my car. As we traversed the mall, I noticed that he was sidling up awfully close to me and at one point; I felt his hand smacking my backside. Honey, no. No. No. Not only is that not remotely romantic, it’s creepy and gross. And you didn’t even buy my beer, cheap ass, so where on earth did you get the idea that your hand would be welcome in my territory?

I wisely moved my ass out of harm’s way and picked up the pace. Halfway through the mall, he asked if we could stop in this shop quickly. At this point, I would do anything to get him out of my life, so I foolishly say yes, and find myself standing in a jewelry store, where Frog #9 proceeds to inform the clerk and me that we’re engaged.

At this point, I am peering into the corners, convinced that Ashton and the gang are just waiting to inform me that I am, in fact, being punk'd. Because this is so not normal. But 30 minutes pass where Frog #9 inspects various gems and I can’t find any signs of Ashton and company, so I realize that I am actually on the worst date ever. And it’s time to escape.

I politely inform the frog that I have a prior commitment and we depart from the jewelry store. I am now focused on one thing only – my escape. But there is no real excuse, other than sheer naïveté, for what happens next.

In order to leave the mall and get to my sweet, sweet freedom, we needed to move from the 2^nd floor of the mall to the 1^st floor. Why I let this creep usher me into an elevator, I don’t know. (Please see prior paragraph comment on naïveté.) As soon as the elevator doors closed, Frog #9 transformed from frog to octopus, and I started to hop around like I had jumping beans in my pants. Thank God it was a short elevator ride. When those doors sprung open, I shot out of the elevator, ran to my car, and threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Now, when a woman runs from you – in heels, nonetheless – it’s a sign, gentleman. And that sign says, “Stop.” Frog #9 missed the sign and continues to call and text, asking for a 2^nd date. Let me be clear: I’d rather spend eternity sitting in shitty bars being ignored by whichever guy friend I’m playing designated driver for than subject myself to further ass slapping and bill-splitting.

There are two lessons here. One, you get what you pay for. Two, New Year’s resolutions are made to be broken.

© 2011 Princess D

Royal Words of Wisdom

It was just over a year ago that I declared myself a princess and began kissing frogs in the earnest hope that I’d find a prince and live happily ever after. After a few false starts, some pretty big disappointments, and some questionable decisions, I began a relationship with Suitor #1 and discovered maybe I’m not really ready for my fairy tale ending after all. Or am I?

Although 2010 didn’t have an auspicious start, it was most certainly the “Summer of Princess”. I found myself in a new city, surrounded by new people, and pursuing a new career. I felt as if I’d finally been set free from the shackles of my past and not only was I excited about the future but I was truly happy in the present. In fact, so great was my optimism that I let a friend convince me to seek the counsel of a spiritual healer. For the low cost of $150, I could commune with my guardian angels and spirits, let go of the crap that bogged me down, and maybe get some help making decisions about my future. At least, that was the plan . . .

And like the best laid plans, it didn’t quite go the way I expected. First off, I managed to wreck a rental car to the tune of $4,000 smackeroos on my way back to the office after my “healing” – a fact whose irony is not lost on me since one might think that one’s spirit friends might help a sister out and perhaps warn her of the impending doom. (One would be wrong, clearly.)

The healing itself was interesting. It began with a lot of hoo-doo, voodoo involving incense, aromatherapy, smudging, and hand waving over my so-called third eye and girly parts for reasons unbeknownst to me. The healer conferred with her spirit friends and then asked me a variety of questions ranging from “Do you suffer from PMS?” to “Are you missing someone whose name starts with an N?”

In retrospect, I’m not sure her questions were super-insightful or guided by voices from the great beyond, but in the moment, laying on a table with a Kleenex over my third eye, it all seemed very profound. How did she know about my PMS? Who told her about my friend, Nate? Upon further reflection, I realize that she actually went through most of the letters prior to “N” in alphabetical order before she hit the nail on the head, but again, that’s hindsight talking.

The healer and I did have a most interesting discussion, however, about a man whose acquaintance I’d recently made. I’m not sure whether to call him frog or friend, so I’ll just call him “that one”. Although I only met That One in the flesh in August, his reputation preceded him and I’d actually known of him for many years as we shared a mutual and very dear friend (whose name started with N) who departed for the great beyond ten years ago.

That One and I made an immediate connection. We celebrated the life of our dear friend, swapped stories, and wiped each others’ tears. And then we realized that we had so much more in common than just shared grief, and we began a wonderfully fulfilling relationship. We laughed, we cried, we saw Jackass 3D.

And, okay, I’m not going to lie to you. I let That One into my heart and he stole it. A Saturday night Target run with That One rivals any date I’ve ever been on for both fun and romance factor, believe it or not. Everyone warned me to be careful with That One. “Remember, Princess . . . you loved his friend. Don’t transfer your feelings for Departed N to That One.” I monitored my feelings vigilantly and denied them even to myself.

One day, That One and I were for a friendly dinner when he dropped a bomb on me. He was worried I was falling for him. This signaled the beginning of the end, and sadly, I lost not only a good friend but also a connection to my past – and my newfound hopes for a happily ever after. I blame the stupid healer. She and her dumb-ass spirit guides convinced me that That One was actually “The One” – and that the great and powerful N wanted nothing more than for us to make a go of it.

Much like Frog #6, I convinced myself that the otherwise very heterosexual That One was actually gay, because all members of the opposite sex immune to my princess wiles are clearly married, gay or priests. I nursed my bruised heart and decided to take a little break from frog kissing in lieu of a little more fun.

Did I sit home every night? Absolutely not. Instead, I dated all kinds of interesting characters from recovering drug addicts to convicted felons to wanna-be underwear models. (In my defense, I didn’t know they were felons or drug addicts until afterwards But the underwear models were deliberately chosen for their good looks and chiseled abs.) I threw myself into work and spent time hanging out with some of my guy friends I’d been neglecting, and I got a glimpse behind enemy lines as the boys let me into their dating lives. Thus began a social experiment that’s already provided enough fodder for my first novel. As we close the books on 2010, I thought I’d share some of the wisdom I gained in the last quarter of the year . . .

A few key learnings:

1. When a male asks a female, “Would you like to watch a movie”, what he really means is, “How’d you like to get to know me in the Biblical sense?”
2. Most males who claim to be looking for the real thing are looking for something entirely different. Rather, they just want to watch as many movies as possible with as many females as possible, but apparently, that type of honesty is repulsive to the opposite sex.
3. 90% of men operate on a different measurement system than women do. Any man who tells you he is 5’10” tall is somewhere between Oompla Loompa height and 5’7”.
4. Cell phone technology, while making us more efficient and connected, allows people to send all kinds of vulgar things to each other with the touch of a button. And apparently, I’m the only one who sees this as a problem.

That’s all the news that’s fit to print for 2010, folks. Happy New Year.

© 2010 Princess D

From Kissing Frogs to Snuggling with Dogs

A trip to my local Target store to pick up toilet paper and deodorant turned into a one-way ticket on the expressway to the holidays.  It was nothing but reindeer, blinking lights, gift wrap, bows, and wreaths as far as the eye could see.  Navigating the aisles was a combat sport, and I made a point to stockpile toilet paper to save myself the horror of an encore performance.  I am now the proud owner of 96 jumbo rolls of Charmin.  I should be safe until President's Day. 

After grinching my way through the store, physically unscathed but emotionally rattled, I loaded up the Honda and decided to soothe my nerves with the dulcet tones of easy listening on my local adult soft rock station. I was ill-prepared for the auditory assault that ensued. Instead of Rick Springfield coveting his friend Jessie's girl, I got a rousing rendition of "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree," followed by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. At a commercial break, the D.J. broke the news to me. Apparently, my adult contemporary hits station has gone all Christmas music, all the time until Boxing Day. Thank heavens I was armed with a collection of CDs, because the only cure for all this festivity was 80's hair band music. Yeah, I said it. And I do own my very own copy of Monsters of Rock, which I sang along to the entire way home from the North Pole . . . er . . . I mean, Target.

I do own a calendar so it's not like the holidays snuck up on me per se. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that if it's the middle of November, Thanksgiving is around the corner and Christmas is next on the list. This year has just been so unusual in so many ways that I seem to have all track of time. I seem to have missed spring and summer entirely – probably due to the fact that I was on an airplane or shacked up at a Holiday Inn the majority of the time, and when I did come up for air, I was too tired to do anything but take a nap.

While singing along to Ratt's greatest hit, "Round and Round," I had a metaphorical visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. You see, I actually love Christmas. I love the movies, the caroling, the decorations, and picking out that perfect gift for the people I care about. I even love the snow (briefly). There is something really special about driving around on a snowy night, looking at Christmas lights and believing in Santa Claus. I love all the rituals and routines and I wouldn't trade any of it. But when you're suddenly single, the routines change.

The entire holiday season was bizarre last year. I was single for the first time in 14 years and wondering if I'd ever date again. In fact, I had my very first single gal date over Thanksgiving weekend last year with Frog #1, Blind Date Frog. While it wasn't a love connection, getting out there gave me the confidence to give dating the old college try, and in the period between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, I was introduced to Frogs 1-3 and had several awkward encounters with a couple of faux frogs to boot.

Last Christmas was especially weird. It snowed, which isn't particularly shocking in this climate at this time of year, but it snowed a lot, and for reasons that make no sense, the city decided to give the plow guys the week off and my car was stuck. My mom cancelled Christmas because she didn't want me out driving – which would have been impossible anyway, since my car was buried under three feet of snow. Can you imagine anything more depressing than sitting at home eating a Lean Cuisine and drinking a Bud Light on Christmas Eve? Me either. That's probably why I wound up spending Christmas Eve with Mr. Wrong last year after all. And I spent Christmas Day on a date with the ill-fated Frog #4.

Fast forward to the present, and there is nary a frog in sight. (Side note: that's not entirely true. There is one potential candidate for frogdom, but he is currently playing frog DUMB. That's a topic for a whole different blog, I'm afraid.) I've retired from Frogs.com and all other forms of internet humiliation . . . I mean, dating. Most of the time – like right now, when I'm sitting in my grubby pj's without any makeup on – I feel pretty good about flying solo.

I don't know what it is, but there is something about the holidays that makes me feel a little awkward about being alone. Maybe it's all the jewelry store commercials, depicting happy couples and diamond-centric gifts or something. I like sparkly things, too! Maybe it has something to do with being the odd number at the dinner table. Or maybe it's just that it would be nice to have a warm somebody to snuggle up with on a cold night.

All I can say is this: thank God I have a dog. He is handsome, loyal, loving, and snuggly to boot. He probably won't pick up my Christmas gift at Jared, The Galleria of Jewelry, but he loves me unconditionally and asks for little more than food, water, a daily walk, and the occasional toy. In fact, I may invite him to Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for more than just my dog, although he is at the top of the list. I am filled with so much gratitude for all the blessings in my life, including my family, my friends, my job, my home, and of course, my therapist. I am one lucky princess. Happy Thanksgiving!

© 2010 Princess D

 

 

 

Selective Memory . . .

While I have kissed many, many frogs and in fact, shacked up with more than one Mr. Wrong in the course of my journey, I have not yet come clean with you, dear 23 readers.

There was one prince among frogs. Unlike Jake Ryan, he didn't show up with a Porsche - he actually had a Schwinn and a metro transit card - but he was and is wonderful and lovable nonetheless. And he is getting more than a little pissed off that he has gotten no props from this princess for his very important role in my life. Since I primarily malign members of the opposite sex here in the blog, I failed to give Serious College Boyfriend the recognition he so richly deserves. Not only did he spend two years dating this pain in the ass masquerading as a princess, but he taught me everything I know about love. And a few other tips and tricks, too.

Was I protecting his privacy? Giving in to my Catholic guilt? Secretly pining for the one who got away? I'll never tell. I will tell you this. Not only is this guy a prince among men, he is an amazing husband to his beautiful wife, a darned good dad to his kid, and normally a fairly tolerant friend. My only real complaint is that I've never been able to convince him that I'm a princess - probably because he knows better - and he therefore feels compelled to call bullshit.

So, Serious College Boyfriend, here is your public recognition. Thank you for your awesomeness in every way. Now, for the love of all that's holy, can you just admit that I'm a princess?

A New Chapter . . . and Still a Royal Pain

Boys and girls, your princess has let you down. Not only have I failed to keep you abreast of the latest and greatest antics in my royally screwed up life (but the team of experts who help me with mundane things like hair, skin, and various waxing endeavors that we won’t mention here assure me that they’ve enjoyed previewing the first-run edition of these tales of woe), I’ve stopped kissing frogs entirely.

Now, just because I’m on a semi-permanent frog-kissing hiatus doesn’t mean I’m renouncing my crown. I am still very much a princess in my own mind . . . and I won’t object if you address me as princess, provided you remove any trace of snideness from your tone. Don’t make me bust out my tiara and teach you a lesson, okay?

The greater frog community is safe for now. I’m not joining a convent or retreating from civilization, although actually, that might be safer for all parties involved. (Note to self: explore convent and hermit options.) But I’ve been on quite the metaphorical roller-coaster ride this fall, and before I lose my lunch, I’ve got a few things to figure out.

Although I was born tall, I’ve been a late bloomer in every other sense – which was probably a blessing in disguise because had I discovered boys while in high school, I likely would have wound up with 3 kids before graduation day. As a kid, I was the human equivalent of Kix cereal. I did my homework, had a job, participated in school activities, and attended church regularly, even though I came from a family of heathens. I was polite, respectful, and goal-oriented. At age 14, I knew exactly where I’d go to college, what my major would be, and I had a plan for the rest of my life. (Side note: the best laid plans of mice, men, and princesses occasionally go astray.)

I finished college in record time, anxious to start my grown-up life. I followed all the rules, made my parents proud and largely stayed out of trouble. (At least, that’s how we’re going to document it for the history books, okay? Those of you who know better are invited to stuff it, but in the most loving way possible.) To complete my grown-up life, I jumped into a relationship and began cohabitating, with the goal of registering at Target, wearing a white dress, and living happily ever after.

I think we all know how that story ends. But what you don’t know is that I appear to be having a delayed adolescence. As an actual adolescent, I spent more time watching John Hughes movies and hoping that my own Jake Ryan would show up and whisk me away in his Porsche. Instead of Jake Ryan, I dated a few guys who later came out of the closet and then I jumped into playing house with Mr. Wrong.

Fast forward a few years when I’m a suddenly single 30-something, and kissing frogs as if it’s a blood sport. Because I’ve always done what’s expected of me, followed the rules, and been responsible, I’m fixated on the idea of the church wedding and living happily ever after in a modest house with a dog. (Kids optional). But I’m worried. Am I dateable? I try my hand at internet dating; a go on a blind date; and I even promote a few friends to frogs . . . and not only do I develop a repertoire of amusing anecdotes to share with the 23 people bored enough to read my blog, I also learn a few important lessons about myself.

If you’re in a committed, monogamous relationship, listen up. I admire you. Dating is relatively easy. You put on a cleavage-baring top, slap on some lipstick, and act charming for a set period of time. As long as your table manners don’t suck and provided you have the social skills of a trained monkey, you’ll be just fine. When the date is over, you return home, throw on some grubby sweats, and recommence belching, farting, and scratching yourself. (Hypothetically).

Relationships, on the other hand, are what happen when the date ends. Relationships aren’t about being charming – they are about being present, caring about someone else and their needs as much as (or more than) your own, and they are about what happens when you are more than just me but rather, part of a “we”. And that, my friends, is hard work.

I’ve met a lot of frogs lo these last 18 months. While there are a few frogs whom I’d like to never see again, many of these frogs are near and dear to my heart. In fact, I count some of them among my closest friends. But there hasn’t been a single frog for whom I’m willing to make the kind of compromises required for a relationship to work. I don’t want to meet your parents, watch football, or eat sushi. What I want is to laugh, to have a good time, and to go home alone, throw on my grubbiest clothes, and be myself.

And so, my friends, I’ve had to rethink the entire premise of this blog. I’m no longer searching for a prince. Instead, I’m trying to figure out how to be the best princess I can be, bar none. I’m not sure I want that white dress and big to-do anymore. Instead, I think I’ll just play dress-up and hit the town with my gal pals. I’m no longer in pursuit of happily ever after . . . but I’ll gladly accept content right now.

Does this mean you’ll never have to read this drivel again? Hell, no. You’re not that lucky. I’ll continue to document the days of my life for your viewing pleasure . . . but we’re entering a new chapter which means that our plot has changed a little bit. Personally, I think the story is just starting to get interesting, so I hope you’ll hang in there with me to see how this one ends.

Later, frogs! Muah!

© 2010 Princess D